Cuz I got one hand in my pocket, and the other one is hailin’ a TAXI ca’ab.

Today I tore flesh.

Today I made myself bleed.

I told you about it in the last post, and now – I want to tell you more

Today I gave consent to ink and pierce my skin in a way that leaves beauty,

a way that leaves pain,

a way that leaves me..

Me.

I must admit-

I wanted the pain on purpose, I wanted the to feel my flesh tear.

My second mind was telling me different…

it hurt..

it FELT painful. …..

My first mind stood its ground – a ground lightly tread upon…

“You only feel as if this is painful..” it said.

“You only feel as though this pain might last forever..” it said.

“This covers up parts of you that you don’t like,” it said.

I waited until the pain felt numb and then I felt the pain again, every tear of flesh made me wince and wither in pain, and I grasped my inner thigh like it was a life line. My right arm fell limp into the tattoo artist’s body, but sometimes he held my hand – not on purpose, but I still felt as though it were my support. I was alone at the tattoo shop, I was worried about the tattoo artists being rude, but once it was just me and the artist, I looked at the pain, looked away, and look again. Pain was irrelevant, pain was inevitable, and the only way through it, was through it.

They were talking for a long time, about deep and personal things. He was always one to ask how she was doing with a certain longing in his eyes as if he really, genuinely wanted to know. Sometimes he would say “you seem a bit down” when she really was. Her boyfriend never acknowledged it without exerting anger towards it. Like it was an inconvenience.

She had decided to come here to his place while her boyfriend was out of town. Mainly to have a smoking buddy, she told herself. But the truth was, a day around him was an aphrodisiac. His winks and ways of touching and initiating hugs. That’s just how he was. But with her perhaps a little more. She recently spent a day at the facility he works at and there was always a compliment about her hair or how good she looked. She became so turned on that she closed the door to her office, slid her hands down her pants and immediately felt moisture before she even got inside. It was hot and quick, and she did it again in the shower later that night. It had been a while since she’s had sex.

He was a charmer, she knew that. She didn’t want to cheat but she didn’t mind using her green habit as an excuse to hang out and get wet. Maybe an unwarranted kiss. Harmless, right?

Also very likely. Now that they were truly alone and not within the confining walls and cameras and probing eyes at work, this was a setup for acting out on true feelings.

She felt herself twinge with desire as she looked over at him. She could feel her warmth soaking into her panties and how she could almost orgasm with that alone. One touch would break the dam.

He was a marijuana connoisseur of sorts, and they had been smoking a joint along with a few beers. He had wanted her to try his bong and went to get it out of the corner. It was two feet of solid blue glass, with super fine etching details around the base. He prepped the bong and filled it carefully with flowers. Blubonic Plague – a sativa with a medicated haze. He handed the loaded bong to her to take the first hit.

She tried once, and then again but realized she needed help to light it. As she turned, he was already moving to slide over in front of her. He pushed the coffee table back behind him and turned to take the bong, which was sitting between her bare legs. She had changed into shorts earlier because of the 90 degree heat. Now, as he got closer, she was glad for the decision as his hands grazed the inside of her thighs and sent shockwaves right to her center. She felt like she could melt into that feeling that was starting to engulf her whole body. He was so close now.

He lit the flowers for her and she inhaled as he withdrew the stem from the base to release the smoke. She held it momentarily then slowly exhaled, looking him in the eyes somewhat seductively. He turned it around and took a hit, still on his knees in front her and then slowly exhaled and let the smoke waft over them. He pushed the bong towards her, still between her thighs and slowly urged it against her and she let out a slight groan.

There was a moment of pause that felt like forever. He had taken the bong and put it on the table behind him and turned back to her, placing each of his hands on each of her knees. It wasn’t until he felt his thumbs initiate a light squeeze that she leaned forward and pressed her lips on his. His hands left her knees and he grabbed her around the waist to pull her closer to him as they started to kiss harder. Her panties were soaked.

She stopped and pulled away.
I have a boyfriend, she said.

And then she stopped writing. Her fantasy drifted away and her pen fell away from the paper.

I keep bringing up this blog and its purpose. It’s not just about the deep funk, it’s about the deep D. D, as in Depression.

I have felt melancholy since I can remember. There’s a sadness in my family, in my family members, and in me.

Those who know me might think, ‘that doesn’t make sense.. it’s silly girl, she laughs and smiles a lot, looks on the positive side of things, seems to like comedic outlooks on life’. I wonder how many have caught on to my sadness. I know there are a few, and it didn’t take long.

But it was never discussed, just understood.

Those who understood me, saw me almost instantly. My eyes give it away, but I’ve noticed that I avoid eye contact (and have for years). Partially because of the dry eyes from weed, but also because I’m not sure how to navigate eye contact. It makes me nervous, and seems to make others nervous, so I dip, dodge and dart from those awkward moments.

I see conversation online all the time now about Depression and what it really looks like. I’m not completely confined by the turmoil of its symptoms, but sad has always been a silver lining to my silly self. Perhaps I’m sad for my family, and in turn sad for myself, but I feel sad, I am sad, and I can’t get others to understand why I’m sad so often.

What’s funny to me is that the online conversations in 2017 express one distinct purpose – to make it known that you understand and are available to talk. The depressed avoid talking, and at the first ‘how are you?’ comes our first attempt to avoid speaking – ‘I’m fine’.

So how do you help? I honestly don’t know. Understanding… accepting our normal. No raised or concerned eyebrows with the inevitable burning questions. Whatever happened to ‘how are you, really’ and… I’m not really sure because most of my conversations are surface level, appropriate etiquette and little desire to go too deep.

People are afraid of feelings, tears, emotions and truth. And I’m not. How do I find a way to cope when no one else is on board? When everyone else tries to pass it off as a fleeting feeling?

The Deep D goes very deep for me. The Deep Funk is just a way minimalize it. Make it seem fun (and funky) and just maybe.. not all that serious. But the deeper you go, the more serious it gets. Fortunately I’ve just ridden the wave without going in too deep.

Whoa. That last post was a doozy. But it was the truth. That’s why I created this blog to bring down the barriers and dive right into the deep funk. I’m closed off enough, so I need to let it out somewhere.

The trip has come and gone. I drove 7 hours in a rented Ford Focus to meet my fiancé. We had fun, saw old friends and places, and enjoyed the unusually nice weather. Then we drove back in under 6 hours and now it’s back to the same old fucking routine.

My neck hurts, my back hurts, I just need more sleep but it can take forever to fall asleep, or just stay asleep. Or sleep solidly.

I came back to work yesterday with no ‘welcome back’ (until I was leaving). It almost feels as if people resent me for having vacation. Certain people.. as if they don’t have vacation to take. They do! Fuckers. I just take my vacation. And mental health days (although I just say I’m sick).

I hate work. Sometimes I think I really like it. And sure – things are going well right now. But I feel like at any moment I could get fired. I’m not doing anything wrong, but always feel like I’m not doing enough. I’m the only girl in my area and the majority of departments I work directly with are men. I can’t help but feel like an outsider because of it. Men create boundaries at work out of fear, and I get it. Perhaps I have to admit I like attention from (certain) men. Always kept the thought in the back of my head – but perhaps I do have Daddy Issues. This is the place to say it, right?

I saw an old friend who is really easy to talk to. She smokes (one of my few friends that do) and we talked about everything from my upcoming wedding to her having her first baby and reality of hormones while preggo & breastfeeding to the ethics of smoking weed and good food. It was a release but also depressing. Having a baby and getting postpartum depression scares the crap out of me. But mainly because I think my fiancé doesn’t understand it.

“If you’re going to sacrifice smoking and drinking while pregame, he needs to sacrifice something as well,” advised my friend.

I’m not sure we can do it. I already can’t stop smoking. Drinking is a little easier but the moment the bottle is in front of me, I’ve already poured my second glass. But he is the one who often brings it home.

We need counseling. Another story for another day. This is also my mental health countdown until our wedding, just under one year from now.

My days have been tough lately. I’m not sure why but I have been through this before. The funny thing is about my depression, is while I thought about suicide in middle school, I don’t think about it much now (more just wish to be left alone). And my hygiene is excellent. Although I really quite despise the process. I wish I could snap my fingers and be ready. Not have to wake up an hour earlier to get ready.

But for me, hygiene is how I cope.

Otherwise I would not be my best self. I wouldn’t have the energy to accomplish things. That’s mistake number one. But just because I have good hygiene doesn’t mean I’m not depressed. If you can lay in bed all day and say fuck it, then someone is paying your bills and doing all the work.

I’m unhappy partly because I’m not happy with my day job. It affects every aspect of my wellbeing. But I’m also unhappy because of my relationships. I don’t always know how to take care of them, and sometimes end up abandoning them.

Then I try to take some photos and realize most of that is not true. Especially the skinny part. Like jesus, I’m “working” out but it’s all a joke. There’s still too much fat on my body. Who could love this? A blob of unsatisfaction. And I watch others, like in my family, put pressure on themselves for some non-existent reason. Or, unseeable reason. Otherwise YOU ARE FUCKING PERFECT. JESUS. I don’t have hips, but enough fat to pass off as hips. Enough stomach fat to pass off as whale blubber. Enough calf to contribute to a small calf. I’m thick as fuck and I try to tell myself otherwise.

The wine I’m drinking doesn’t help. I thought that I’d like to think that without my fiancé I’d be better off.. but I’m not. In fact, I’m worse. I thought I was getting better, but all of my addictions just step right up – HELLLoooo we’re here to make your life fucking miserable.

Fuck. You.

So..

While I try to make life out to be a place where we can live just off of the beauty of reality alone, I’m just fucking fooling myself. I’m not in the right state of mind to convince myself otherwise. Maybe I took a few photos, but that’s the Paradise of Perfection. It’s a fucking delusional paradise, in which I live. Welcome.

The last time I was alone, was a weekend day, much like this. Except morning, and the clock would be ticking until I wouldn’t be alone anymore. Within a little less than 8 hours, I would share time with someone else. My mind shuts down and I share. I remove myself, let a piece go, and lose another part of me that felt important.

It’s not well understood, time alone. It’s not meant to hurt anybody, but it still does.

I recently discovered an old jazz song called “Baltimore Oriole”. While it was originally composed by Hoagy Charmicael in 1944, I was driving to the train station one day and NPR was playing a version – the first I’d heard – by Bob Dorough in 1957. I was hooked from the first twirl of piano keys that hooked into a jazzy spoken word version of the metaphorical flight of a Baltimore Oriole. I had never quite heard anything like it. I searched the NPR website for a playlist and found it after a few misguided attempts at videos of Bob Dorough in the 80s. This song from 1957 is unique in it’s presentation, beat and voice. Closing in on the Beatnik era, it embraced all the jazz elements with an offbeat tempo that takes a certain voice – and a certain timeframe in history.

I played it for him. Just like any song that’s especially meaningful to me, I started to cry a bit into the song. Raised eyebrows glanced my way, and I defended myself. “It was an emotional day,” I stated. We did have a fight earlier that morning – because he called in sick and I wasn’t happy about it. We took a walk and hashed it out. We both knew he was going out of town for a boys weekend (thank god) and I was supposed to come meet him. But I didn’t want to. ..I’m going. He doesn’t want to be alone.

But I do.

So the compromise is I get the next 5 days to myself. It will be hard, and I will miss him. But we’re always together. I don’t always need to be together.. in fact, I want to be apart. My heart needs space to feel fond of you.

When I write, I don’t need you reading behind my back. That’s partly why I created this blog. So no one I know can read it. So I can write freely without holding back. I’m holding back so much I’m about to explode. I NEED to be alone right now.

So.. 5 days in solitude. The next two days in somewhat real solitude – no work, no friends, just meaningless casual interactions at a store or two and then I’m back home with the dog waiting for the next sleep.

For some reason the coming of Spring brought in the blues. Heavy, heavy blues. Everything was so easy for a little while. Needless to say, I knew it wouldn’t last.

I don’t feel the bowling ball this morning, but my body is super stiff. I haven’t worked out since Saturday, and unfortunately for all of us depressed folks – if you don’t work out, you can tailspin into darkness pretty fast. I also smoke weed, everyday. It’s probably not helping but it definitely gives my mind the shift it needs to keep moving (or just sleep it off). Speaking of sleeping, I do a lot more of it. Can’t quite ever get enough of it (also due to my smoking, and wine drinking). It’s hard to find a good nights asleep. I love the early mornings but I only get those when I have to go into work.

Today the clouds were neon pink.

But my soul continues to brew in darkness.

Last weekend I wasn’t very nice to my fiancé when he made the sudden decision to call in sick so we could hang out. What he didn’t know, was that I was looking forward to having this Saturday to myself. I was at a breaking point. I needed people to just leave me alone, including him. He was understandably upset. I didn’t know what to say, as I sat stubborn in my persistence to feel miserable. And I didn’t know how to explain it to him.

People tend to go silent when they hear the word ‘depression’.

We worked through it, once again. I tend to be like shaken soda bottle. I’ll keep it all inside until you shake me up enough. Never a good ending for me, the soda bottle or the person holding it.

But you, Deep Funk, YOU are my diary. For whenever I go into a deep funk, you will be my sanctuary. To say what’s on my mind in the vague sort of way that I do, and not have any constraints because of who might be reading it. Strangers are a-ok here. I don’t know you.

I’ve been struggling lately. Back in one of my funks. I had a solid 3 months without incident, without the sour grapes, but once again – here I am. Can’t shake the funk. It hangs on each end of my mouth dragging it down so I look like a clown when I try to smile. My eyes become sad and my shoulders droop, to the point where my head feels thrice its size and I start to feel like I’ve been maintaining a bowling ball held up on a very small stick.

People become a problem. And it doesn’t matter who you are, but if you’re super nice then I’m going to loathe you. If you’re not very nice I’ll loathe you as well. It also helps if you don’t pry, but eventually – someone is going to have to ask if I’m OK.

But I’m not okay. Not right now anyway.

Things could always be worse and I only have myself to blame, but when the funk comes along I feel helpless. I feel tired. Oh, so tired. Holding up a bowling ball will do that to you.

So now you might have figured out what the funk was. So that’s what this is. A funky blog. A blog full of funk. A Flog. My Flog. A Flog for the Ages.

Welcome to my Blog and my Funk. I’ll try to keep I vaguely real.

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